


The Return

by themysteryvanishing



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themysteryvanishing/pseuds/themysteryvanishing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Helena, it’s time to come home.” It was a statement. Balanced on the edge between a plea and a command.</p><p>Helena sniffed, crossing her arms tightly against her chest, against the cool night air. “Why couldn’t I come home before?”</p><p>Mrs. Frederic inclined her head. Moonlight glanced off her lenses. “I think you know.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

Helena Wells was sitting in a hotel lobby bar, sipping a shandygaff and drowning in nostalgia when a muffled ping sounded from the recesses of her handbag. She replaced the round-bellied glass on a complimentary napkin, whose stamped hotel logo smeared under the condensation, and rummaged through the bag in search of the device Mrs. Frederic had labeled a burner phone and had given her before her untimely departure from the Warehouse. Helena hadn’t heard from the woman in months, but had dutifully kept the phone charged and on her person at all times, per her instructions. September was a little more than halfway over and the trees that lined the street outside had begun to turn. Helena’s gaze slid over them before she turned to the phone’s bright screen.

_Yellowstone National Park. Old Faithful. Friday. 4:30._

Its brevity gave it urgency. Its familiarity gave it weight. All as if the woman knew Helena wouldn’t be able to ignore it, couldn’t ignore it, no matter what feelings had transpired in the inordinate amount of time that had passed. Mrs. Frederic could certainly be a daft coot sometimes. Perish the thought she say exactly what was going on anymore.

Helena wanted to believe Mrs. Frederic had no knowledge of certain, ah, recent reconnaissance trips, but no one was telling Helena anything, and she was nothing if not determined. Determined to find out what the bloody hell had happened to the Warehouse, to the team, to…Myka.

 _Oh, Myka_ , she thought miserably. It had been a year and a half. After Mrs. Frederic’s parting words, well-intended though they were as she sent Helena off with the astrolabe, she hadn’t come close to trusting anyone as much as she had trusted Myka Bering. Not that she always felt the need to trust anyone. It was easier not to, in fact. It was better to simply give the impression of trust; let the other person open up, reveal their intentions, understand how that affected one’s own plans. Use, improve upon, discard. No real trust, no hard feelings. 

Or at least, that was how it felt after MacPherson. After the decades spent in a bronze coffin.

But not after Myka. 

After Myka, everything was different. 

Had to be. Helena wouldn’t accept anything less of herself now. She supposed that was a good thing, not that the Regents had given her that much mind.

Side-eying the white-whiskered bartender, she lent serious thought to changing her order. Time for a stiffer upper lip. If Mrs. Frederic was messaging her now, then there was no mistaking her intent. At least, that’s what Helena thought. Time to strap on those proverbial big-girl pants Agent Lattimer once spoke of. “Whiskey neat, please.”

The bartender paused infinitesimally before replying with a short nod, and set a shot glass in front of her, saying nothing as he poured the amber liquid and left her to it.

She brought the drink to her lips, her nose assaulted with rich notes of leather and tobacco. Her heart ached.

“Righty-ho, then,” she murmured and tossed it back.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the first day of autumn. 

Helena leaned, shoulders slouched almost imperceptibly, hinting at a resentfulness she had been saving for the last year and a half, against an aspen, paying no mind to the tourists who passed her en route to the infamous geysers. She zippered her leather jacket, which she wore like armor, a reinforcement of the feelings Mrs. Frederic no doubt had guessed at and for which Helena deduced she had called this sudden meeting. 

Everything Mrs. Frederic did was sudden, Helena considered. So, she thought, heart sinking, nothing new, then. She glanced at the gilded chronograph she kept tucked in her pocket. Four-thirty.

Helena finally looked up, the sudden emptiness around her more telling than any noise could be. 

Mrs. Frederic was standing, calm and composed and confident, at the edge of a meandering creek in the middle of Yellowstone Park. 

Helena set her jaw and pushed off of the tree. “You called?” she asked as she approached the statuesque woman before her, shoving her fists into her jacket pockets. 

Mrs. Frederic half-turned to face her. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled into its customarily tight beehive, though she had switched out the pink tweed for a grey suit. It was businesslike, strikingly so. Helena involuntarily took one step back.

Helena did not scare easily. There had been a time, maybe, when shadows made her uneasy, more due to painful reminders than any ascribed phobia. When Christina was born, Helena feared no more or less than any mother did; she kissed Christina’s bruises and, when Christina was a little older, taught her the basics of bartitsu, since garroting was on the rise, and the child’s affinity alone would have made Sir Doyle proud. When the wave of Jack the Ripper murders hit the East End, Christina asked one night, with wide and earnest eyes and with custard smudged on the corner of her mouth, what had happened to the women. Helena and Wooley had spent most of the fortnight prior searching for the artifact responsible, without much luck, and strong though the woman’s gut was, the artifact’s effects had been horrific to witness, even for her. What will you tell her? The truth. That had been Christina’s first experience with death. A few years later, after Paris…Helena knew fear. A few years more and she looked fear in the eye and tortured it into submission. 

So when Mrs. Frederic fixed upon her with a gaze so formidable and an expression so masterfully unreadable that Helena suddenly doubted both herself and the intention of this meeting, Helena had no choice but to relinquish the bitterness that had welled up within her. In its place was something bordering on shocked surrender.

“And you haven’t,” Mrs. Frederic replied evenly.


	3. Chapter 3

Helena’s eyes narrowed in response.

“You were tasked to hide the astrolabe and disappear. You did that. And well, I might add, seeing as I almost had to resort to a common criminal’s methods to find you,” the grey-suited woman continued. “But you haven’t come back.”

“I was…under the impression I was to await some sort of signal, a set of instructions, in order to return,” Helena answered uneasily.

“You sound unsure.”

Helena scoffed in an effort to appease the involuntary twisting in her gut. Of course she was sure. Until five minutes ago, she wouldn’t have believed otherwise. If this was the warehouse caretaker’s way of reasserting some sort of misplaced dominance, well, she was reasserting it alright. “Well, what on earth do you want me to say?” 

Mrs. Frederic frowned slightly. “Not say. Do. Your little excursions have not gone unnoticed, Agent Wells. I do believe you’ve managed to keep yourself well within the loop.”

Helena had the good grace to appear mildly admonished at that. “Well, the Emily Lake passport certainly had its uses. Do thank the Regents for me.”

“You can thank them yourself. In fact, I’m surprised you didn’t do it sooner. We’re waiting for you, Helena.”

HG was now completely certain that she had no idea what the woman’s game was, the fact of which startled her as much if not more than the woman’s use of her first name and the gentleness with which she used to say it. How to unseat a mastermind in ten minutes or less. Bravo, you old bat.

“You’re angry,” Mrs. Frederic continued. “Bitter might be the better word here, though. And you are right to be. Just not for the reasons you think.”

Helena ran an agitated hand through her raven-dark hair. “You’ve left me well enough alone. Why now?” 

Nothing confused Helena more than when Mrs. Frederic finally smiled. “I think it’s time. Don’t you?”


	4. Chapter 4

“I wanted to thank you for the flowers you brought to Leena’s grave,” Mrs. Frederic said, folding her hands behind her as they walked, side by side, along the water’s edge. 

Helena wondered how, if everything Mrs. Frederic said and did relied on the element of surprise, everything still managed to catch her off-guard. “You saw me?”

“Of course,” the ageless woman replied, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. The sun was setting, and the orange light bounced off her glasses as she looked down. “She, however, did not. I assume that was your intention.”

Helena was quiet a moment. “You assume correctly. I wish—

 

_—I could have seen you, one last time.” Helena knelt down next to the fresh mound of dirt, clutching a bouquet of white chrysanthemums to her chest. She sniffed. It was spring again. If she were less strong-willed, she could have closed her eyes and it would have been Christina’s funeral all over again._

_She sniffed again. “How awful am I, Leena? I should be saying something, something eloquent, something worthy of you and your heart and your unending kindness, and all I can think about is...”_

_Helena shook her head. Not even an hour ago, Myka had been standing here, alongside Pete, Claudia, Steve, and even Artie, all looking a little worse for wear. Helena had watched from a self-imposed distance. She thought she saw a tear slip from Myka’s eye. Helena clutched her chest, the pain of it threatening to overwhelm her._

_“I’m here, Myka,” she whispered. Myka never heard her._

 

 

“She’s waiting for you,” Mrs. Frederic said, as if from far away.

Helena shook her head quickly, thoughts returning to the present, to the cool evening air of Yellowstone Park. Her heart ached. “I’m fairly certain she isn’t.”

It was Mrs. Frederic’s turn to appear surprised. “You’re a smart woman, Agent Wells. May I ask how you arrived at that conclusion?”

 

 

_“Hey. Merry Christmas, Myka,”_

_Myka, seated in a booth at the only coffeehouse in Univille with a cup of coffee she forgot about seven case files ago, which was down from ten after sliding three of the thinner, less daunting-looking files in front of Pete who was now, of course, nowhere to be seen, looked up at Claudia in surprise. “You finished your set already?”_

_It was dark outside now, save for the lights from a few streetlamps, which burned yellow and orange halos upon several feet of snow._

_Claudia propped her guitar case against the booth before taking off her spiked tuxedo blazer. “Yeah, you just missed half an hour of Dead Rent earcandy. Anyways, here you go.” She placed a small, colorfully-wrapped box atop one pile amongst Myka’s mountain range of backlog._

_“Oh, Claud, you shouldn’t have,” Myka replied quietly._

_“I don’t know about you, but this year has kinda sucked. A lot. Thought it’d be nice to have something to look forward to.” Claudia returned a wistful smile. “Go on, open it.”_

_“You sure? I can wait ‘til tomorrow morning,” Myka said, eyeing the tiny box, just a little bit curious. “I’m not Pete, y’know.”_

_Claudia rolled her eyes. “What some would consider a public service, I might add. Seriously, open it. The anticipation’s ki--getting to me.”_

_Myka heard the hesitation, the avoidance. She understood and nodded, but not before acknowledging a twinge of uneasiness in her gut that made her look about the room and run her mental checklist, which she checked more often than was strictly necessary but, owing to recent events, felt safer if it was done:_

_Claudia, check. Pete was… heading to the restroom at the back, check. Steve was drinking coffee at a table for three at her ten o’clock…check. Artie was on a Vanessa-enforced vacation somewhere not in South Dakota, so…check. And HG was still…gone. No check there. Hadn’t been. Not for months. Myka feared she’d get used to leaving that particular box unchecked._

_The knot loosened a little. She took a deep breath, rearranged her features, and returned her focus to the neon-wrappered box._

_She took her time, carefully slipping a finger under the tape and unfolding the wrapping paper. The truth was, she was missing Helena. Myka would be lying if she said she hadn’t been secretly dreaming of spending the holidays with her. Her heart ached at the thought of a hundred unfinished memories._

_“Oh!” she gasped softly, having opened the black velvet box. Within it was a knotted rope ring, the high-polish sterling glinting under the coffeehouse lights._

_“Now, before you say ‘I do,’” Claudia interrupted, resting a placating hand on Myka’s arm, “Let me just preface by saying…I know you wish she could be here now and honestly, I wish she could be here, too. I thought maybe this could remind you she’s still out there somewhere, that she’ll come back. Not being with the person you love…really sucks.”_

_Myka swallowed hard. She didn’t know what hurt more: acknowledging Helena’s absence or accepting Claudia’s age-defying wisdom. She pushed past it. “But I’m here with you guys. I think that’s something.”_

_Claudia nodded, expression almost serious. “Well, anyway,” she finally said, drumming her purple-polished nails on the table. “I hope it fits.”_

_Myka tried it on each finger. She bit her lip as she slipped it onto her ring finger and realized it fit best. “I see what you did there,” she said, her voice soft._

_“Did what where?” Claudia asked, quirking a smile before darting off to join Steve at his table._

_Resting an elbow atop a mess of open files, Myka held out her hand, admiring the simple ring on her finger. She considered the intricate rope folds, which appeared to never end, looping back in on itself in four directions. Her stomach swooped when she realized what it was: a Victorian love knot. Oh, Claudia…_

_Outside in the near-darkness, a bundled figure crossed the snowplowed street, eyes transfixed on the window of the only coffeehouse in Univille. It was Christmas Eve. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t dreamed of spending the holidays with the woman who sat alone at the booth in the corner, practically buried under paperwork._

_Snow crunched beneath her boots as she stopped just short of the yellow corona directly beneath a streetlight. She stood in the darkness for a moment, savoring the peace, the quiet. Her heart ached and her limbs trembled. Finally, after months of waiting, there she was._

_Myka, Helena breathed. The name materialized as a wisp of condensed air and dissipated instantly._

_She watched the woman a moment longer. She saw Myka raise her hand, fingers bent at the knuckles, tilt her head. Helena squinted and saw the glint of metal. Her heart stopped. Her limbs froze._

_A ring._

_A harsh northerly wind gusted, erasing her footprints as she retreated from the window. The impossibly dark night swallowed her whole._

_Myka sighed, sliding the ring up and down her finger experimentally. She glanced out the window, taking note of the snowflakes that had begun to fall, before picking up her pen and resuming her work. She smiled at Pete, who brought over two fresh cups of steaming coffee and, hopefully, a renewed effort to tackle the paperwork. She was willing to consider that her present from him this year._

_Wherever you are, she thought, Merry Christmas, Helena._


	5. Chapter 5

“Do you know why she wears it, Agent Wells?” Mrs. Frederic asked. Her voice was calm and her gaze piercing, locked onto Helena over the top of her glasses.

“You mean, for a reason other than a subtle display of pending wedded bliss, of holy matrimony?” Helena bit back. For a second, she thought she saw a shadow of weariness flicker across Mrs. Frederic’s features. Trick of the light, perhaps.

It was twilight. The open, clear sky was an orangey purple. Canopus, the second brightest star, blinked into view along the southern horizon. Helena hung her head. 

“I take it I’ve assumed wrongly,” she conceded quietly.

Mrs. Frederic said nothing for a time, simply tilted her head back and admired the night sky. 

Helena paced the water’s edge, her movements a coordinated release of months of constrained energy, executed deliberately, which spoke to an acquired, necessary fortitude. Her arms were folded coolly across her chest. She kicked a pebble into the stream. “I didn’t want to get—

 

 

_—in the way,” the short, twinkly-eyed Italian shopkeeper grumbled as he motioned for the throng of customers to cut a path through the store. “Scusi, scusi.”_

_He had Helena by the hand and together, they wove their way through the stifling ceramics shop. Summer sunlight poured in through a rooftop window, highlighting the fine haze of dust and ground stone that lingered in the air._

_Pressing in on her were shelves lined with every manner of maiolica and every shape an urn could possibly be. Helena teetered between believing the sheer volume of work here translated to the shopkeeper’s extensive knowledge of the craft and realizing that an Italian artisan who knew about a very particular marble raven figurine was like asking the Catholic Church about their stance on the Shroud of Turin. The jury was perpetually out._

_But Myka and Pete had been in the area searching earlier that morning. Helena trusted Myka’s intellectually-guided instincts. If she thought it was here, then it, or perhaps a very strong lead, would be here._

_They were on the hunt for The Raven, which, according to every literary scholar, was an Italian fairytale, but was also, according to every Warehouse agent (who had actually bothered to read the manual) was a palm-sized marble figurine that was capable of granting its user short glimpses into the future, but if they were to tell anyone what they saw, they would turn to stone. The antidote? Helena scoffed as she read further down the manual’s page: human blood. Utterly barbaric._

_So she had followed Myka’s and Pete’s steady footsteps, always from a distance, paying off any number of vendors and café waiters to eavesdrop for her. She had brought with her the vestiges of the manual she’d been given long ago and stashed in another lifetime, and which she had recovered light of her recent necessary exile, more out of a need to be prepared than anything now. But if it helped Myka, well, that was good enough for Helena._

_Of course, she simply had to stay out of Myka’s way. It had been a year._

_“You are la seconda persona to ask me about this,” the shopkeeper said, his hunched form turned away from Helena as buried himself in an old file cabinet in the cramped office at the back of his store. She supposed she should have prepared a bit better for this conversation, but for now, simply mhmm’ed in agreement._

_“Say,” he said, straightening suddenly and turning sharply towards her. “You are too pretty to be asking about these things. If you are avvoltoio, ah, how you say,” he paused, rolling his wrist impatiently in search of the word, “a vulture, you stay away from the poor man. He has a good soul, not yet corrupted. The woman, too.” He waited, watching for her reaction._

_She supposed he was being idiomatic, and that he in no way expected her to suddenly sprout wings and pluck a hapless Pete (oh, who was she kidding, of course she’d pluck Myka, she thought, nearly congratulating herself on the entendre) and carry him off. Unless everyone in this country was under some collective delusion about the avian genus._

_She wanted to tell the shopkeeper she was a good person, that she most certainly not a pickpocket or a vagrant, that she was asking about such a curious thing in order to help the two people who came before her, not corrupt them._

_The bitterness welled up within her then. How times had truly changed._

_“No, no, I am…” she paused, inventing wildly, “an appraiser. I’ve been searching for this piece for some time and…I was in the area and thought I’d take a look.” She held her breath, hoping he’d take the bait. Italians. Lying to them was like a game of Russian roulette. As she waited, a tiny part of her seemed to recall a Claudia-ism, that the Warehouse could be likened to an artifact roadshow. So…it wasn’t lying. Not reeeally._

_If there was one thing the Italian had going for him, it was knowing when not to ask any more questions than was strictly necessary. He just nodded, sweat dripping down his temples, and he resumed his search of the file cabinet. Moments later, he straightened up and placed a cedar box on the cluttered desk between them._

_Helena watched him closely. Italians kept firearms everywhere. It was simply better to accept it now and be prepared._

_He placed his hands on the lid, as if to open it, but he paused and looked up at her, his expression unexpectedly…sad. “They say a king called Milluccio one day saw a dead raven lying upon a stone. He was instantly overcome with the desire to find a woman who at once, was as black as the raven, as red as the blood that spilled from it, and as white as the stone upon which it drew its last breath. The king’s brother tasked himself to find such a woman, and he sailed far and wide to find her. To his relief, such a woman did exist: a magician’s daughter. Her name was Liviella. The brother convinced her to meet the king. As they sailed back to the king’s land, two doves told the brother that a dragon would eat the king and his new wife on their wedding night. They warned the brother that if he told the king, or if he prevented the king and Liviella from marrying, he would turn to stone.”_

_Helena was struck by the clarity with which the man spoke. He had told this story before._

_“Well, on the wedding night, as the king and his new wife slept, the brother slayed the dragon. When the king awoke, the dragon vanished, leaving the brother with no evidence of his valor, just an incriminating sword. The king had him imprisoned and marked for death. The brother could not bear the thought of dying without professing his innocence. He told his brother the king his story about the doves and turned to stone.”_

_Helena shivered involuntarily. The man really was a bloody good storyteller._

_“When asked what Milluccio would give in exchange for his brother’s life, he offered his kingdom; when he learned that essence of life was needed, he offered himself. He sliced open his hand and anointed the statue with it. His brother returned to life.” The Italian slowly met her gaze. “Of course, this is all fairytale. I tell the story many times. Good for tourism.”_

_He cracked a grin, which Helena warily returned._

_“I do not show them this, however,” he continued, creaking open the lid of the box. “In all my years of telling this story, I have never seen a creature as striking as you.” He gazed at her in earnest. “Your skin is like marble, your lips red like blood, your hair dark as a raven’s wing. If I didn’t know any better, I’d call you Liviella.”_

_It wouldn’t have mattered if Helena had prepared a conversation with this man. Whatever traditional script humans used, as far as this man was concerned, he’d departed from it the minute they exchanged a greeting. Didn’t mean Helena couldn’t be hopeful._

_The Italian shopkeeper removed a cloth bundle from the box. Helena quickly snapped on a pair of purple gloves, hoping it all fit under the appraiser image she was only halfheartedly maintaining. Her eyes widened when he placed it in her gloved, upturned hands._

_“You may have it.”_

_There was a twinkle of a tear in his eye._

_“Grazie, signore,” she said softly. He nodded and came around from behind his desk. He led her back through the store and out onto the street._

_“Addio, mio corvo,” he called back to her._

_Helena smiled as she slipped the figurine into a static bag she had stashed in the inner pocket of her jacket. She stepped into an alley as the bag sparked with centuries-old energy._

_She glanced around. If Helena moved quickly, she could cross country lines and make it to the old mausoleum in Graz a waiter overheard Myka mention that afternoon at lunch. She may not have been permitted to speak to Myka, but Helena would be damned if she couldn’t help her. And…Helena added, as an afterthought, it didn’t mean she could make Myka work for it, either._

_A strong sense of renewed purpose filled her. With the raven neutralized and tucked away, Helena set off for Austria._

 

 

“When I first joined Warehouse 12, when I first began my apprenticeship for Caturanga, I accepted that this job, this life, comes with a price. I assumed, after Christina, that I had paid it. That my ignorance, my hubris, my obsessions, got in the way and because of that, when the cosmos balanced its books, I stood to lose the most. Before the bronzer, I nearly gave in to the thought that I would die as the single most wretched creature on earth. I didn’t expect Myka. I didn’t expect…any of this.” She gestured weakly towards her surroundings. 

“Neither did she,” Mrs. Frederic replied, taking a seat on a massive, uprooted trunk that lay petrified, on its side. “That’s the funny thing about life, and not just that of Warehouse agents. The cosmos is going to do whatever the cosmos feels like doing. And life goes on. But she doesn’t want to go on without you. Surely you, of all people in her life, have realized that by now.”


	6. Chapter 6

Helena looked remarkably helpless standing beneath the moonlight, exposed, alone. “I thought—I well and truly believed—that the Chinese orchid was going to kill her, a year and a half ago.” Her breath puffed in the chilly night air. 

Mrs. Frederic glanced up at Helena, watching her closely.

 

 

_She stood there, arms hanging loosely at her sides, trapped by the four plain white walls of the hospital room, listening to the faint hiss of a ventilator, just looking at the impossibly pale person on the bed before her. It was the closest she had been to Myka in weeks and there she was, unconscious, eyes closed and sunken from dehydration, lips bloodless, her skin almost as white as the sheet that covered her. Helena’s shoulders sagged. For after the battle, indeed, comes quiet._

_Everyone had left for the night. By Helena’s estimations, Myka had been in a coma for six days. It was a miracle Artie hadn’t bled out (past grievances aside, Helena wasn’t above spying on him in the emergency room to put her mind at ease) and it was a perfectly-manicured middle finger thrown in the general direction of the cosmic balance that she, Pete, Steve, and Claudia had pieced together records from the first Chinese orchid outbreak and disseminated a cure at the eleventh hour._

_Helena herself had been affected, overcome with intense, almost violent shivering on the afternoon of the outbreak while in London. Wrapped in every blanket she could find in her hotel room, head swimming, and heart pounding distractingly in her ears, she read up on everything she could get her hands on. She was insufferably cold, despite the pleasant summer temperatures. It was spreading from inside her, as if ice had replaced the blood in her veins. It was a strange feeling, as if she’d gotten snow stuck on inside of her clothes. It seared her skin._

_She’d narrowed the symptoms down to the Picardy sweat and the English sweating sickness en route to Berlin, just as the pain had spread down her shoulders and into her chest._

_And then, quite suddenly, the pain, the sweating, the shivering, all of it was gone, and Helena knew._

_She just wasn’t expecting this._

_Helena remained, unmoving, at the foot of Myka’s hospital bed. She wasn’t sure if Myka had been behind on immunizations (though Helena strongly doubted it, because the great Agent Bering was nothing if not obedient when it came to following orders. Pete, on the other hand…), or if she hadn’t been properly exposed to the antidote (another thing Helena had her doubts about, considering her near-miraculous recovery from several countries away), or if it was something else entirely, something, Helena dared to wonder, that wasn’t medically-related at all._

_More than anything, Helena felt helpless. It should have been her in Berlin with Myka, should have been Bering and Wells, solving puzzles and saving the bloody day. She knew why she wasn’t, had accepted that she couldn’t. Didn’t hurt any less, though._

_She watched the steady green blips on the heart monitor, counted them until she reached one hundred. Eyes burning, she took a deep breath and picked up the medical chart hanging on the back of the bed. She perused it, saw nothing out of the ordinary._

_Helena moved to sit on the edge of a chair beside the bed. Her heart ached._

_She was so close. Close enough to feel the chill that radiated from the skin of a woman inconceivably alive. She didn’t want Myka to be cold anymore._

_It’s my own damned fault, Helena reasoned. It had to be. Nothing else made sense. No science or medicine or Warehouse manual would fix this._

Helena slipped a shaky hand into Myka’s, lacing their fingers, hot over cold. Her chin trembled. “Please hold on,” she whispered hoarsely, covering her face with her free hand. “Myka, I—I am so…so sorry. Please…please, don’t go. Not you. Anyone but you.”

_She was so cold. Helena glanced, through curtains of disheveled hair, at the clock on the wall: 1:15 a.m._

_She had an hour and forty-five minutes before vitals check._

_One hour and forty-five minutes before what would become, Helena feared, a lifetime of misery._

_Grabbing a spare blanket off the back of her chair and fluffing it out, Helena moved to the edge of the bed and kicked off her shoes. She spread out the fuzzy blanket and carefully slipped into the space next to Myka, drawing the blankets up to their chins. Helena wrapped her arms around Myka and pulled her close. They fit together easily; Plato’s idea of soul mates, in the flesh. She rested her head against Myka’s temple._

_“If this is the end, darling…”_

_Her voice caught. It had been years since Helena had had a proper cry. She had forgotten that, sometimes, there was no fighting the thick knot in one’s throat, or the burn of salty tears. She was tired from fighting. At least, she thought, it was quiet and they were alone._

_Helena breathed more deeply now. Her heart had finally stopped pounding in her ears. She ran a warm finger down a cold cheek._

_“This isn’t how I expected it to be,” Helena murmured. And finally, the pain of the last few weeks of running and helping and hiding weighed fully upon her. She squeezed Myka’s hand, more for her own reassurance, and fell asleep._


	7. Chapter 7

_Helena dreamt she was back in London, dining with Jerome K. Jerome and talking war._

_Supper was abandoned and pushed haphazardly to one end of the table. In place of dishes and cutlery were lead hollow cast toy soldiers and wooden blocks; a battlefield in miniature._

_Helena was wearing the easy smirk of a valiant general; across the table from her, Jerome K. Jerome was scratching his head in confusion, surveying the devastation of his army. “I don’t understand! My charge should have obliterated your rag-tag defense!”_

_He stood up, attempting to survey the field from a different angle, as if it might enlighten him. He shook his head. “My God, woman. Where did you learn to fight like that?”_

_Helena chuckled throatily. “I assure you, Mister Jerome, God had little to do with it; my gender, even less. Some girls are simply that more intelligent sort who like boys’ games.”_

_“I’ll say,” Jerome replied._

_Helena inclined her head, watching him and reveling for just a moment in her friend’s frustration. “Your objective was clear, Mister Jerome. You tasked me to clear the land east of Hook’s Farm.”_

_“But you were outnumbered!”_

_Helena still smiled, lacing her fingers together and placing them upon the dark walnut table.  
“True. Clearly, you underestimated precisely what I would do with the compact force of three guns, forty-eight infantry, and twenty-five horses you picked for me.” _

_“Your army was arranged in two columns, twenty—ten of whom were mounted—and sixty, armed with five guns, spread across country land between Hook’s Farm,” Helena continued, indicating a wooden block to her left, “and Firefly Church,” which she indicated to her right. “Spread across such a distance, especially whilst under fire, there was not much chance of effective communication. Concentrated effort, in this situation, would have been preferable to such thin cover. When I set the entirety of my force upon Hook’s Farm, your smaller column stood little chance. It was some time before your second column had ascertained the situation and attempted a flank, where our cover was thinnest.”_

_Mr. Jerome watched as Helena replayed the suppertime battle._

_“I will concede, Mister Jerome, I briefly thought us to be done for. However, we now had protection in the form of Hook’s Farm. When your cavalry charged, my men simply holed up and laid fire. Fish in a barrel, I believe, is the saying.”_

_Jerome nodded in understanding._

_“I will also note, good sir, battles such as these require a stomach for gunfire. No war was won by tossing Yorkshire pudding over enemy lines,” Helena finished._

_“H.G. Wells, a war tactician,” Jerome said, the awe evident in his voice. “Who would have thought?”_

_Helena ran a hand through up to her plaited hair, feigning innocence. “My dear Jerome, even pacifists play chess.”_

_Jerome chuckled and smoothed a hand over his chin thoughtfully. “I take it Charles consults your expertise when the plot takes him to the battlefield?”_

_Helena smiled and nodded politely, but was beset by a stiffness in her back. Her brow furrowed slightly. The entirety of the situation bore down on her, heavy. How she wished times would change, so that she might employ these talents so few see! How misled the world was. How miserable the present times. What was left for her anymore?_

 

_Helena stirred, eyes opening to the semi darkness of Myka’s hospital room. The clock on the wall read 1:47 a.m. She stretched and yawned, eyes never leaving Myka, who was coldly tranquil beside her. Helena traced a finger down Myka’s pale arm, following a vivid blue vein._

_She yawned again and curled up against Myka, sharing all the warmth she had to offer, and closed her eyes._

 

_It was evening at the bed and breakfast. Helena, glass of tawny port in hand (compliments of Leena’s well-stocked wine fridge), fell back against Myka, who, Helena noted, was very much alive and deliciously warm and most certainly awake, propped up against the chestnut headboard in her bedroom. Myka slipped a long finger alongside and under another page in The War of the Worlds, reading by the light of a solitary Rococo-period lamp._

_“I’m surprised at you, darling.”_

_Myka scoffed through a grin. “At my impressive ability to overlook your abundant use of the word tentacle, or at the fact that I believe terrifying alien invasions make for good bedtime stories?”_

_“Oh, Myka, must I choose?” Helena smirked and nestled into the exposed space between Myka’s neck and shoulder, saying nothing. Myka’s heartbeat thudded in even, reassuring intervals and Helena found herself keeping time. Sixty heartbeats before a page turn. Five hundred words a minute. Two sections, twenty-seven chapters. Two-hundred and twenty four pages. Myka would be finished before midnight._

_Helena smiled. Numbers had substance. They had weight and meaning. As sincere as the words on the well-loved pages before her. Numbers and words and stories and cause and effect. In these things, there was truth._

_“Everyone expected the world to end at midnight, on the final day of 1899. People had a lot to fear, then, because no one knew the truth about anything,” Helena said. “In a way, though, the world really did end in 1899.”_

_Myka frowned, resting her chin against Helena’s head full of dark hair. “Is that where War of the Worlds came from?”_

_“A little bit,” came the reply. “That, and Charles’s second wife Catherine might have benefited from some tentacles herself.”_

_“Helena!” Myka admonished, but couldn’t resist smiling. Quiet minutes passed._

_HG stopped counting because the page didn’t turn on the sixtieth beat. “Something on your mind, love? Myka?”_

_The thudding that was once loud in her ears was fading._

_“Helena?” Myka’s hand was on her chest. “I can’t…breathe.” Helena sat up abruptly and turned to the woman whose eyelids had fluttered closed. The blood drained from Myka’s face and she slumped over sideways; a lifeless little doll of a corpse._

_“No no no, Myka, don’t do this,” Helena pled as she gathered Myka close to her chest and eased her head onto a pillow. Her instincts were to panic and to assess. She needed the latter. The first lesson she ever learned in kenpō had nothing to do with kenpō and everything to do with breathing, acquiring that ineffable calm. Helena inhaled slowly._

_She pushed two fingers against the inside of Myka’s wrist: nothing. She pressed an ear against Myka’s sternum: no lung sounds. Need: immediate resuscitation. Cause: unknown. Differential: hell if she knew. Prognosis: poor._

_Bloody hell._

_She wasted no time tilting Myka’s chin upward. Head back, airway open. Rate: one hundred beats per minute. Compression depth: five centimeters. Compressions. Airway. Breathing._

_Helena’s pressed her mouth against Myka’s and breathed. Compressions. Airway. Breathing. Rinse and repeat._

_Helena had no concept of time anymore. It could have been five hours or five minutes. She stopped between steady compressions to run her fingers down Myka’s wrist in search of a pulse. Her skin was ice._

_A gurgling noise caught her attention. She knew that sound. Fluid in the airway._

_“Helena?” the voice was quiet, tiny. “You stopped. Why did you stop?” Throaty gurgle. “I need you to help me. What,” wet gasp, “have you done?”_

_Helena continued to stare at Myka, whose green eyes were open wide but unseeing. “I…I don’t know. I don’t understand. The orchid—”_

_“The orchid only h-hurt me, Helena. But you…you k-killed me. I loved you and y-you never came back.” Something red bubbled at her lips. “S-Should’ve just put a b-bullet in my brain.”_

_On the last word, a shot went off, so loud and which shook the room with such a concussive force that Helena hit the floor, all pretense of calm completely and utterly gone._

_She rose slowly, dark eyes darting about the room for a shooter. Finding none, she turned, trembling, to Myka. Her stomach lurched._

_There was a gaping, bleeding hole in Myka’s forehead. Her brunette curls were spattered with sticky redness. Helena watched in abject horror as blood seeped outward beneath her, onto the pillow._

_Helena’s voice was raspy, strained. “No. I’m better now, Myka. I’m not the same person anymore. I only want to help you. Please…let me help you.”_

_“What have you done?” the room whispered. “What have you done?”_

_“No,” Helena whispered._

 

_“No!”_

_Helena’s head nodded and she startled awake with so much force she almost toppled out of bed. She breathed hard, vision already fogging on the periphery from over-oxygenation, when she remembered where she was. Breathe, just breathe. But what about…?_

_She whirled around to see Myka, who looked as she had done for five days previous. Helena held Myka’s face, the complexion of which was now just a shade above pallid (small victories, Helena granted), in her hands. There was no blood, no bullet hole. The heart monitor blipped in even beats. The ventilator pumped and hissed and Myka’s chest rose and fell._

_Quickly forcing sleep and the vestiges of dreams from her eyes, she searched for the clock face: 2:57 a.m. Her time with Myka was up._

_With remarkably steady hands, despite the nightmarish images tugging at the edge of her thoughts, she tucked Myka in, the blankets forming a cocoon of residual body heat, and took one last look at her. It broke Helena’s heart in half. This was the end of the world. It had to be._

_Helena sniffed and her eyes burned again._

_She leaned over, her hand warm on Myka’s cheek, gently brushing a brunette curl behind her ear, and tenderly pressed her lips to Myka’s cold forehead._

_“I love you, Myka,” she whispered and kissed it again. “I will return to you, someday. I promise.”_

 

 

Night had fallen over Yellowstone Park.

Mrs. Frederic sat perfectly upright, eyes never leaving Helena, who was hiding her face behind her hands. 

Mrs. Frederic had her own ideas about inter-agent fraternization, which generally matched the guidelines set forth by the New Agent Guidelines and Disclaimer contract. But, unbeknownst to the Regents, she had grown to reserve a margin for human error (because, quite honestly, some of the regents had been behind desks for too long; not that she made it a habit of informing them of the particulars of that shortcoming) and let her opinion on the matter be best reflected by her actions. Of course, generally speaking, she, like the contract, had only one rule: don’t do it. 

What countless years of endless wonder had done, however, was allow the reality of the job (which she witnessed firsthand on an impressively regular basis and confirmed her belief that life was far too short) to make room for one more rule: if you’re going to do it anyway, then for the love of all that is snagged, bagged, and tagged (to coin a phrase), do your damnedest to not end up missing, crazy, or on a slab because, good grief, it was a hell of a thing breaking up a good team and worse yet, dealing with the remaining half, especially if she had been the one to pair them up in the first place. Because, damn, nobody held a grudge quite like a Warehouse agent. Especially one who loved their partner. So if you planned to love ‘em, Mrs. Frederic reasoned, by jove, stick with ‘em.

That said, she respected what Helena was trying—and failing, by the looks of it—to do, and Mrs. Frederic would have none of it. Helena didn’t know it, but there was a lot about her that Mrs. Frederic respected.

“Helena, it’s time to come home.” It was a statement. Balanced on the edge between a plea and a command.

Helena sniffed, crossing her arms tightly against her chest, against the cool night air. “Why couldn’t I come home before?”

Mrs. Frederic inclined her head. Moonlight glanced off her lenses. “I think you know why.”

“You doubted me?”

“No, Helena. You doubted yourself.”

Helena looked stricken, more broken than any Irene had ever seen.

“You could have done anything, being on your own. You could have given Arthur the astrolabe. You could have unplugged the ventilator at the hospital, misguided by personal loss. You could have gone into the coffeehouse, blind with misplaced anger, on Christmas Eve. You could have refrained from risking your own life being out in the open to help Myka and Pete in Italy. You could have, Helena, done everything you might have done in the past, the things that weighed against you when the cosmic axe fell. These things you finally set aside and left alone. You set yourself free.” Mrs. Frederic was standing now, her hands now firmly grasping Helena’s shoulders.

Helena realized this was the first time Mrs. Frederic had ever touched her. Her grip was surprisingly strong, assuredly so.

“You proved more about yourself than you’ve ever done. No one doubts your worth, your love, least of all Myka. So what are you waiting for?” 

Helena was shaking, her breathing uneven. It was the truth, and she knew it. She said nothing as she glanced up once more at the night sky, which was alight with billions of stars. By the time she looked back, in search of Mrs. Frederic, she realized with a small smile, the woman was long gone.


	8. Chapter 8

It was suppertime at the bed and breakfast.

Steve was setting the table in the dining room and Pete was in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove. 

“Dinner for three again, I assume?” Steve asked quietly.

Claudia, who lifted up her laptop as Steve placed a plate in front of her, answered, “Yeah. Myka’s spending the evening in her room.”

Steve nodded, left the room, and returned with utensils, which clinked against each other as he set them on the table. “Rough day today?”

Claudia shrugged. “If you ask me, we got the short stick of the day, chasing down Agnodice’s swaddling cloth. Running interference in a hospital’s hard, okay? Anyways, I think she and Pete just did inventory today.”

“I dunno, I didn’t even have to ask how she was doing to know she wasn’t fine,” Steve said. “Something was definitely on her mind when she got home this afternoon.”

From the kitchen, Pete trumpeted, heralding supper. “Lady and gentleman,” he began, carrying a saucepan into the dining room and setting it in the middle of the table. “I doth present…our dinner.” He lifted the lid, revealing a steaming bowl of pasta with a hearty topping of tomato sauce. 

“You didn’t even burn the water, Pete,” Claudia said, surveying the pot with wide eyes as she set her laptop off to the side. She tied her auburn hair—which she was letting grow out a little, time to mix it up a bit, she’d said—into a pony. “I’m impressed.”

“Credit where it’s due, milady,” Pete replied. “Bon appétit!”

 

Pete was dangling a particularly long noodle over his mouth when something moved out of the corner of his eye. He froze and slowly turned his head to see just what had caught his attention. 

“Mykes!” he exclaimed, dropping the noodle, which landed with a splat! on the side of his face. 

Claudia and Steve turned in their seats. Myka stood mid-tiptoe in the hallway. 

“Would you like some pasta?” Steve offered.

Myka turned to them and shrugged. “Just thought I’d make a cup of tea. Thanks, though.”

She continued on into the kitchen, leaving the other three in concerned silence. 

Claudia finally leaned in, which prompted Pete and Steve to do the same. “You guys, I’m serious, she looks like crap. Pete, can’t you get her to eat something?”

Pete shrugged. “Says she hasn’t been feeling well this week. Oh! Maybe it’s, y’know…” He trailed off, his eyes widening as if they were supposed to be in on something. “Y’know…that time of the month?”

“Geeze, Pete, are you twelve? No, she’s not pms-ing. She’d have hoarded the cookies by now,” Claudia said with a roll of her eyes and pointed, indicating some leftover sauce on Pete’s cheek.

They heard shuffling of feet and quieted when Myka stepped into the room, a cup of steaming tea in her left hand. 

“It’s okay, guys,” she said with a small smile. “I’m fine. It’s just been a rough week.” She glanced down at the ring on her finger and looked up again quickly.

She started forward when—

“Oh good, you’re all here,” Mrs. Frederic announced, from the other side of the room. Pete almost fell out of his seat. 

“I’m telling you, that’ll never get old,” Pete said under his breath as clambered back into his chair.

“Claudia,” Mrs. Frederic said, approaching the table, “you can start the trace now.” 

Everyone looked from Mrs. Frederic to Claudia, who opened up her laptop, and back to Mrs. Frederic. 

Myka frowned, unable to fight the old knot that was forming in her gut. She met Pete’s gaze. He, too, appeared concerned, but more towards her than the fact that the warehouse caretaker had simply materialized in the dining room.

Myka panicked a little, could feel the blood leaving her face. _Checklist. Claudia, Steve, Pete: check, check, check. Artie was at the warehouse…check. Helena…no check. All systems normal_ , she told herself, so why was her heart racing?

“What’s wrong?” Myka finally asked, an unmistakable edge to her voice. Her breath was shallow.

“Not wrong, Myka,” Mrs. Frederic said, almost smiling. “Something right. Agent Wells is coming home at last.”

The sound of the ceramic teacup breaking as it hit the floor was loud in Myka’s ears, almost as loud as the pounding of her heart. The room spun. Claudia’s image melted into Steve’s, who melted into the outline of Mrs. Frederic, who melted into the fuzzy blob she could’ve sworn was Pete a moment ago.

She was out before she hit the floor.

 

Night had fallen over South Dakota.

Myka sat on the edge of the bed, something she’d insisted on despite protests from everyone up to and including the newest addition to her bedroom, Dr. Vanessa Calder, wearing a more-than-slightly dazed expression and adamantly opposed to lying down. She was tenderly massaging the bump on the back of her head when Dr. Calder returned with a compress, which Myka only begrudgingly took. It’s not that she wasn’t grateful for the help, she just wasn’t prone to indulging in being cared for.

“I’m fine. Really,” Myka insisted. “It was just…low blood sugar or something.”

Vanessa Calder ushered everyone out and took a seat on the edge of a chair beside the bed and shone a penlight in Myka’s eyes. Satisfied with whatever she’d found or not found (true to doctor form, Myka noted, right down to that inscrutable expression seemingly required of all physicians, whom, Myka also noted, she’d had enough of to last two lifetimes) she sat back and pulled her reading glasses from the top of her head and perched them on her nose as she picked up and scanned the contents of the manila folder tabbed Bering, Myka O. in her hands.

“I might remind you,” Dr. Calder continued conversationally, handing Myka a piece of candy, “that not so long ago you were toeing the line between life and death, which is something that this job expects you to experience on an almost-weekly basis. Any particular reason you’re mentioning your recent lack of appetite and subsequent blood sugar crash, symptoms which possibly speak to a bigger issue and certainly warrants my concern, only _after_ you inexplicably fainted?”

“Maybe because South Dakota’s a little far from the CDC and I didn’t want you to make the trip twice?” Myka offered sheepishly, staring at the candy in her hand. “And it wasn’t _inexplicably_ , okay? I was just…shocked. That’s all.”

“Thoughtful, Agent Bering, but unnecessary, as your health will always be my concern. If you were jockeying for Agent of the Month, well, I’m sure such thoughtfulness will not go unnoticed,” Dr. Calder replied. “Eat that, you need glucose.”

Myka sighed and unfolded the candy wrapper.

“Anyways,” Dr. Calder continued, “given what Mrs. Frederic shared with me during your foray into unconsciousness, I’m to understand you have quite the reason to be shocked.”

“I just…can’t believe that after all this time…” Myka trailed off, tucking an errant curl behind her ear and slipping the hard candy into her mouth. “It’s been a year and a half.” 

Dr. Calder looked up at her, nodding in understanding. “And how is the good Agent Wells?”

Myka looked down at the floor, which made her head spin. “Apparently, she’s…she’s okay.” She folded her hands together. “Her birthday was yesterday.”

Vanessa watched Myka closely over the top of her glasses. “Tell me, what’s on your mind, Agent Bering?”

Myka considered the very real possibility of having a heart-to-heart. She just wasn’t sure she was ready, wasn’t sure she’d ever be. “Nothing,” she sighed. “I’m sorry for making you come all the way out here this late.”

Vanessa inclined her head, trying to regain Myka’s gaze. “You said it yourself. I’ve already made the trip. This sounds like something you aren’t able to discuss with the likes of Artie or even Agent Lattimer.”

Myka glanced up and quickly looked away. She waited a moment before nodding silently. 

“It’s just, I’ve been thinking, y’know, since all this happened. There was a time when I entertained the idea of being closer to her. Physically, emotionally…” Myka’s voice trailed off, as did her thoughts. 

“She mentioned to me once, when we were hunting down an artifact and she’d just been reinstated as an agent, how she’d started thinking about her future, since she was out of the bronzer and had something of a new lease on life,” Myka continued, taking a breath as she reorganized her thoughts. “She’d just spent over a hundred years mourning the loss of her daughter, which was as fresh on her mind when she left the bronzer as it when she went in. She said that sense of loss would never truly leave her, but made her wonder if time could heal such wounds.”

Dr. Calder sat up a little higher in her chair and folded one leg over the other. She clasped her hands together atop the open file in her lap.

“It was such an innocent thing, then. To her…and to me,” Myka said. Her eyes unfocused as she remembered. “‘You were right about many things, Myka. You once said I didn’t really want the world to end. You spoke the truth. Part of me wonders if the cosmos will forgive my past transgressions. To have another child, maybe even one with Christina’s eyes...’” 

Myka blinked, forced herself back into the present. “She had considered the possibility of having another child. Not to replace Christina, of course, but maybe to give herself hope. And…with the orchid, with the countless number of artifacts we’ve all been exposed to, with the bronzer. It’s gotta take its toll sometime, right?” Myka asked, finally looking up to meet Dr. Calder’s knowing gaze. 

“It is possible,” Vanessa said, removing her glasses and carefully folding them in her lap, “that, after all this time, an unquantifiable amount of damage was done, damage that we simply cannot assess because we lack the knowledge and the means.” 

Myka replied, her voice quiet, “So you’re telling me MacPherson brought her back just so she could do his dirty work and if anything had happened to her during her time in the bronzer, those concerns were secondary to his goal and…” She sniffed. “Nobody asked her what she would’ve wanted.”

“Well, considering what we now know about MacPherson, Helena wasn’t in a position to bargain.”

“I know,” Myka replied. “If only I could’ve stopped her from getting a hold of the trident, maybe I could’ve asked her, but by then, there were more pressing matters. As always.”

“Did you ever think maybe that was part of her motivation?” Vanessa asked, rising from her seat to she gather up her things. “That, not only was the future an unsafe place, but she realized she was just as enslaved in this time as she was during her own? That she would never have another chance to have a child?”

“There wasn’t any time to think, Vanessa,” Myka said, running a hand through her mussed curls. “Besides, the two weren’t mutually inclusive. Whatever dreams she had of future children, she understood that maybe, just maybe, those dreams vanished when she put herself in the bronzer.” Myka couldn’t help but notice the bitterness in her voice.

“She bronzed herself for the sake of many people, Myka. In some ways, even for you, even if she had no way of knowing it then.”

“But Helena was brought back to fight someone else’s war,” Myka said, desperation underlying her words. “And what does she have to look forward to?

“Had MacPherson given Helena the luxury of choosing to work for him or of marching off into the sunset of the future, do you think we would still be here, having this conversation?” Dr. Calder asked gently, but the sadness was evident in her eyes.

Myka looked thoroughly dejected. “We’re not having this conversation,” she said through a sigh. “It’s—it’s not important.”

“Isn’t it, though? Have you considered that maybe, all this time, she’s waiting for you?” Vanessa asked, sounding remarkably sure of herself. “Waiting, and hoping that you’ll come around and welcome her back and tell her everything you’re telling me? Where do you think she is now?”

“She’s coming home,” Myka said quietly. “Mrs. Frederic said she was.”

Dr. Calder continued, matching Myka’s quiet tone. “Do you know what she was doing, all this time?” Myka shrugged.

“I think you do. There’s a possibility that Helena really was out in the world fighting the good fight, not worrying about whatever children she might not have because she was too busy fighting for a world for whatever children you might have.” 

Vanessa watched as Myka shifted on the edge of the bed. It was obvious she would really rather be wearing a hole in the floor. “You either want her gone, whereabouts unknown so you can finally have the freedom to stop blaming yourself for her absence and relieve yourself of your fear that you can’t give her the future she dreamed of, or you want her back here, home, because here is where she’s safe, and here is where you can give each other a future. She has changed. And you know it. I believe it’s time to make your decision.”

“I guess…” Myka sniffed. “I just wanted someone else to feel about it all as I do. I mean, there’s only so much worth living for.”

“I think the both of you have the world and more to live for, Myka,” Vanessa said, placing a reassuring hand on Myka’s arm. “You’ll never know if you don’t take a chance. The result might surprise you.”

Myka was silent, reveling in slipping the weight of the world off her shoulders for a moment. When it came right down to it, Myka granted, Vanessa Calder was a damn good sounding board. 

Myka finally smiled at her. “And you expect me to believe you got all that from me fainting?”

“They didn’t make me a warehouse doctor for nothin’, y’know,” Dr. Calder teased. “What’s weighing on your mind goes far beyond medicine, Myka. You’re right to wonder about these things. You are, after all, only human.”

Myka made to stand up to see the doctor to the door, but Dr. Calder promptly stopped her, with a shake of her head. “Ooh, no you don’t. I’ll have Pete bring up something for you, which you will eat. Doctor’s orders.” 

Vanessa added, with a smile, “Try and get some rest, Agent Bering. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

Myka watched the doctor leave the room. She sat back, feeling remarkably better than she’d done all week, and examined the ring on her finger. She sighed and crawled under the covers. The knot in her stomach had eased itself some and she was relieved to find she wanted to turn off the lamp. The darkness would not be bringing her nightmares tonight.


	9. Chapter 9

At 3:30 in the morning, Myka silently and expertly hopped over the one squeaky stair on the staircase and deftly maneuvered her way into the kitchen.

She wasn’t tired anymore.

And since that was the case, she figured she might as well do something productive. But first, coffee.

Ever since Leena…well, the coffee pickings certainly weren’t what they used to be. Pete, bighearted though he was to do the grocery shopping every other week, the man, without fail, always returned home with seventy-five percent protein, fifteen percent carbonated beverages, five percent cookies, and five percent outstandingly bad coffee. And Pete had just done the shopping and restocked for the week.

No matter, Myka told herself. Because today, nothing could really go wrong. Nothing. As she replaced the paper filter in the coffee machine, she had a little tête-à-tête with the universe. 

Myka didn’t know why the cosmos had such an abnormally large stick up its ass (though, she supposed, that might have been the combined result of millennia of bearing witness to and repeatedly striking really bad deals with humanity and being forced to get creative every once in a while), and why it felt the need to periodically remove said stick and beat her over the head with it. She especially didn’t understand why, when she even dared to, say, not succumb to the orchid’s effects when she was eyeballs-deep in overwhelming sadness and the throes of loss, the cosmos decided that she was better off alone. But it was bargaining time now. She promptly took the stick and drew a proverbial line in the sand: You stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine. Because, dammit, it’s been a year and a half. A year and a half, universe. So kindly take your little cosmic rulebook, fold it neatly into quarters and shove it so far up your ass that, not only can you not fit that stick back in there, you can also taste the perfume I’m taking the time to wear today because nothing, I repeat: nothing, is getting in the way of today.

“Whoa, dude, I know the coffee’s bad, but are you gonna strangle it or drink it?” someone asked and Myka jumped in the semi-darkness of the kitchen.

She nearly chucked the bag of coffee in the direction of the bodiless voice, but Claudia stepped into a patch of moonlight, her face doubly illuminated by the screen of her laptop. She had her free hand up in defense.

“Geeze, Claudia, don’t do that!” Myka hissed and turned away, expelling a pent-up breath. She flung the coffee bag onto the counter and brought a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose.

Claudia stood still, watching. “Everything okay?”

Myka still didn’t look at her, but nodded, dark curls bouncing. “Yeah. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Nope,” she replied quietly through a smile. “Mrs. Frederic has me on night duty. In fact, it might interest you to know, I’ve got HG on the radar over here.”

Myka whipped her head around, eyes wide. “You…you do?” 

“Yeah. But before I share with your Mrs. Frederic’s little scheme, how about we switch out the nasty generic stuff and uh,” Claudia bent down and opened a cabinet door, reaching in until her shoulder was against the cabinet, and withdrew a little bag, “make some real coffee.”

Myka smiled. Your move, universe.

 

After Yellowstone, Helena spent the remainder of the night traveling to Univille and arrived shortly before sunrise. She tipped the overnight barista extra after ordering a steaming mug of tea. Seated in the corner booth she’d spied on months and months ago, she sipped the hot brew in silence as dawn broke on the horizon. 

She was nearly home.

Helena nervously ran a hand through her hair. It was too late to turn back now. Besides, wasn’t this what she’d been hoping for, exiling herself for, the past year and a half? A year and a half. Had it been that long? Oh, hell.

Helena knew Myka was an early riser. She withdrew the chronograph from her pocket and placed it on the table beside her cell phone, quietly ticking off the minutes until it the hands reached a semi-reasonable hour.

“Three…two…one,” she finished softly. 

She picked up the phone and dialed. She tossed back her raven-dark hair and pressed the phone to her ear.

Helena felt her throat run dry. What was she supposed to say, again? Myka, darling, it’s been far too long. Take me back? She supposed she already had the accent going for her. Blimey, what the hell was she thinking? She sniffed her cup of tea, feeling suspicious.

The phone continued to ring and she swallowed hard once, twice, and worked her jaw when suddenly, the phone chimed loudly in her ear. 

“Bloody—” 

Helena yanked it away to see that a text message, which could only have originated from her one contact left in this world, had come through, and, on this poor excuse of a cell phone, accidentally dropped the call. 

“Dammit,” Helena swore and pressed a button to read the text.

Agent emergency. Meet at B&B ASAP.

Helena’s stomach clenched and nearly expelled the tea she’d just spent the morning consuming. 

Myka. 

She shoved the phone and pocket watch into her jacket and left the coffeehouse at a run.

 

“Helloo?” Helena called out, sticking her head inside the bed and breakfast. No answer. She considered it was entirely possible Mrs. Frederic was simply waiting for the perfect moment to make herself noticed. 

She proceeded to the stairs at the left. Her foot was on the first step when—

Clink!

Helena whipped her head around, fighting against that terribly human instinct to inhale sharply. Something had hit the floor in another room. Something metallic.

She assessed. No weapons. Just an abundance of defensive moves. But if what hit the floor in the other room was what she thought it was, then she was fresh out of luck unless she planned her next moves very carefully.

Lifting her foot silently off the stair, she rerouted and proceeded further into the house.

She stepped daintily, never allowing her full weight to rest on her feet. Hallway, clear. She breathed in silent, even intervals, though her heart insisted on hammering erratically in her chest. Dining room, clear.

Helena rounded the corner into the kitchen—

“Surpriiiiiise!”

Helena involuntarily jumped back and brought her arms up defensively over her face. In the spaces between her arms, she was shocked to see Pete, Steve, Claudia, and…Myka standing around a table in the nook of the kitchen. Colorful balloons bobbed and swayed in clusters, tied to chairs which were fancifully adorned with bows and streamers. What on earth—

She was clutching her chest recovering from the shock, trying to make sense of what she was seeing, when Pete spoke as he bent down to retrieve a fork off the floor.

“Aw man, she didn’t scream.”

Claudia elbowed him in the ribs. Helena’s eyes widened a bit more when she saw Pete cough up a wad of money and begrudgingly stuff it into Claudia’s outstretched hand.

“Maybe for you, she doesn’t,” Myka started, moving forward, flashing Pete a look, a devious glint in her eye. She turned back to meet Helena’s gaze and smiled slightly. “And whatever you’re getting, Claud, I get a third.”

Steve chuckled lightly. “Ouch.”

As Myka approached her, Helena took half a step backwards, still wearing a confused expression. “I don’t understand. You’re…But h-how…Mrs. Frederic said…but how did you—”

“Tracking device,” Claudia said simply. “We knew you were coming.”

“But…I was given a burner phone. It’s untraceable, I thought that’s why Mrs. Frederic—”

“—tagged you in Yellowstone,” said Claudia. “Whoops.”

Helena inclined her head, thinking. It took her half a minute before she realized precisely when Mrs. Frederic would have had such an opportunity. Helena was a little offended at herself. Sloppy work there, Agent Wells. She patted down the arms of her jacket and raised an eyebrow when her hand hit the bug, which was nestled in the underarm stitching, where the sleeve joined at the shoulder.

“Dammit,” she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. Anything to not look at Myka, who was miraculously okay, considering Helena had assumed that mere minutes ago, her nightmares were finally coming to life. Helena could feel the worry and tension etched into her expression and it was taking her a moment to iron it out of her features. She breathed again.

Myka was okay. And she was suddenly closer to Helena than she’d been since…since…

“Okay,” she conceded, finally scanning the group and allowing her gaze to meet Myka’s. Those eyes were so green, so…alive. “You’re okay,” she breathed, as the rims of her eyes pinked involuntarily. 

“But why all the…” she indicated the balloons, streamers, and ooh, was that sticky toffee pudding? with a wave of her hand. “It’s—”

“Uh, only your birthday, dude. I actually did my research, okay? Yesterday was technically HG’s birthday,” Pete interjected. “Right?”

Claudia nodded. “Yeah, you’re like, what, 150 now?

“Honestly, she doesn’t look a day over a hundred,” Steve supplied.

Claudia held out her hand for a low-five, which Steve slapped. 

Helena relaxed a little, finally taking a moment. She calculated it easily, surprised she had forgotten, but given recent events, was willing to overlook her momentary forgetfulness. “147, actually. But thank you. I was…not expecting this.”

“Hey, well, you can thank Mrs. Frederic for thinking of it. I only checked the internet to make sure we had the date right,” Pete said.

“The internet, Pete? That means you finally learned how to use the apps I downloaded for you. I’m so proud,” Claudia teased.

Myka inclined her head, smile hesitant and wavering, as she tried to assess Helena’s reaction. They said nothing, just stared, wide-eyed, hardly daring to believe in the other’s existence. 

“Anyways, Artie sends his love, or at least, that’s what I think he was saying. It was grumbles mostly,” Claudia continued, in the background. “He says he’s given you two,” she indicated, waggling a finger between Myka and Helena, “the day to, ah, celebrate and that he and Pete,” she nudged Pete in the ribs again, “will keep an eye on the warehouse. Speaking of, Jinksy, you and I need to get back before Artie sprains something worrying about today’s artifact. This one shouldn’t take too long.”

Steve nodded and checked his watch as he fetched his leather jacket from the back of a chair.

Claudia added, waving her hands as she spoke, “Something in Rapid City’s making it snow extra hard. Didn’t get the ping til a little bit ago only because, if there’s one thing the residents of South Dakota don’t notice, it’s ungodly amounts of snow. Said they’d be more worried if it hadn’t been snowing.” She rolled her eyes. “That said, we should be back by happy hour. And HG? I turned twenty-one somewhere during your absence. Be prepared for some serious gin fizzin’ up in here tonight, so…don’t take off, okay? I even bought cream soda for Pete. The expensive, legit kind, not the crappy generic stuff that some people around here purchase by the bomb-shelter-load.”

“Careful, Claud. I have to always be prepared. You never know, Artie might make us dig up and neutralize North Dakota’s missile supply next,” Pete warned.

Claudia scoffed. “Yeah, well, don’t give him any ideas.”

Helena finally smiled. “I assure you, Claudia. That will be the least of your worries. I’m…” She looked Myka in the eyes. “Here to stay.” She heard Myka exhale, relieved.

“Excellent, madame.” Claudia playfully saluted. “Bering and Wells, back in action.”

Pete giggled. “Yeah,” he whispered loudly. “Literally.”

Claudia elbowed him again.

Pete winced. “Ow, good grief, you’re gonna break a rib soon.” He brought a hand to his side and prodded it experimentally. He shot Claudia a doleful look.

“Okaaaay, children,” Steve interrupted. “Car. Now.”

Myka smirked at that. Helena thought she was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. 

For a moment, Myka could’ve sworn Helena looked as she did the first time they laid eyes on each other. Well, minus the gunpoint. It was a look that was one part pleasant surprise at how deliciously, evenly matched they were, and one part acknowledgment that everyone—themselves included—would feel immensely better if they just did it already. Unresolved sexual tension, Claudia had called it. Just for that, Myka had considered enforcing internet timeout.

It passed, shadow-like, over Helena’s features and was gone instantly, replaced by something even better. 

“We seem to be missing something,” Helena started, feeling a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

At that, Myka frowned. Checklist? No. She wouldn’t be needing that today.

“Gunpoint, dear,” Helena reminded Myka, her voice soft. There was a light in her eyes. 

Myka grinned shakily, could feel the sudden burn of tears along the rims of her eyes.

“It’s okay to breathe, Myka,” Helena said, grabbing hold of Myka’s hand, rubbing her thumb over the knotted silver ring on Myka’s finger. Her skin was warm. Finally. “I’m here.” 

It was as though Myka’s nerve endings were feeling for the first time, the way her feet felt when they touched the floor first thing in the morning. Helena’s touch was almost electric.

Helena smiled and Myka squeezed her hand in response. Helena brought up her free hand to brush her knuckles against Myka’s cheek, which was pink and warm and…alive. She traced a finger along Myka’s exquisite jaw line. 

She continued, her finger outlining the hem of Myka’s shirt, where it drew together at the first button. She hesitated, looked Myka in the eye, and finally pressed her hand against Myka’s chest. She closed her eyes and counted the thrums that resonated up through the fabric and against her palm. If she pressed deeply enough, she could almost feel the spark of energy that fueled the most merciful heart in the world. 

This was no nightmare. Nor a dream, or even a distant memory replayed a thousand times and unraveling at the edges.

Myka lived and breathed. And she was right here.

Helena’s hand lingered there a moment, wanting to make absolutely sure. Myka understood and took a deeper breath, for reassurance. 

Myka pulled Helena close. They rested their foreheads against each other.

“You’re alive,” Helena breathed, her voice hoarse.

“So are you,” Myka replied. 

Helena mm’ed in response. Myka’s forehead blissfully hummed and she closed her eyes, inhaling that faint, familiar aroma of heliotrope. If she listened hard enough, she could almost hear the magnificent cogs of the most brilliant mind in the world.

This was no nightmare. Nor a dream, or even distant memory replayed a thousand times and unraveling at the edges.

Helena was conscious and alive in the present. And she was right here.

And it had just occurred to the two of them that they still had an audience. 

Myka sighed, permitting herself an internal eye roll before turning to quirk an unimpressed eyebrow at the group.

Mouthbreathing Neanderthal, Helena thought, opening an eye and spying Pete, whose jaw was close to hitting the floor.

“Wooo,” Pete said, with a dramatic flourish of his hands in an effort to smooth over the moment. He glanced from Helena to Myka. “Uh, helloo, what’re we waiting for?”

Myka grinned as Helena replied, “Honestly? For Mrs. Frederic to show u—”

“Most thoughtful of you.” 

Everyone, including Helena, jumped. The warehouse caretaker, who, Helena observed, was back to her customary pink tweed, entered the room, hands clasped in front of her. Her eyes were twinkling.

“Which, I might add, is one of many qualities that the Regents were, ah, encouraged to take into consideration before they moved to permanently reinstate you at Warehouse 13,” Mrs. Frederic said.

Myka gasped. 

“Eat dust, Team Sausagefest!” Claudia squealed as quietly as possible. Steve choked.

“Oh my god, seriously?” Pete whispered in Claudia’s direction. 

“Happy Birthday, Agent Wells,” Mrs. Frederic finished. She smiled at Helena, who laughed through a sigh of relief. 

Not eager to jeopardize her renewed agent status, instead of a hug, Helena slowly approached Mrs. Frederic and held out an upturned hand. Upon it sat the tiny bug that Mrs. Frederic had stuck on her jacket the night before.

“For you.”

Mrs. Frederic smiled knowingly as she plucked it from Helena’s hand and tucked it into her pocket. Finally, she held out her own hand and offered it to Helena.

Helena didn’t move at first, simply looked at the outstretched hand, and allowed the surrealism of the moment to solidify into something resembling a memory. Finally, with a perfunctory nod, she reached out and shook Mrs. Frederic’s hand.

“Welcome to the future, Agent Wells,” Mrs. Frederic said and turned on her heel. She proceeded to the hallway, heels clicking against the hardwood floor. They waited for the sound of a door that, Helena realized, never needed opening in the first place. Certainly not by Mrs. Frederic, at least.

Helena turned back to Myka, who stood there with tearing eyes and shaking her head in delighted amazement. 

“I missed you, Helena,” Myka said, choking through a knot Helena knew was forming in her own throat. “More than you’ll ever know.”

Helena didn’t waste another moment. 

She took Myka by the hand and pulled her in close, reveling in the feeling of Myka rolling her hips intuitively to hers. Helena drank in the image of her, skillfully memorized every curve and every angle of Myka’s face as her lips brushed over Myka’s. Of course, there would be plenty of time later to memorize—and precisely utilize—every inch of the woman in her arms, if only she could lose the giddy peanut gallery. She leaned in and nibbled Myka’s earlobe tentatively.   
It certainly garnered the effect she was hoping for. 

Myka’s groan, inaudible to everyone else, was a sweet secret in Helena’s ear.

Meanwhile Steve, who stood between and just behind Pete and Claudia, brought his hands up to cover their eyes. “Okay, now we’re leaving.”

“Myka and HG, sittin’ in a tree,” Pete sang gleefully as he reluctantly followed Claudia towards the door.

“K-i-s-s-i-n-g,” Claudia joined in, as Steve herded them out.

The door shut in the distance. They waited, listening to the start of the car. They’d waited this long already. They gave it a moment longer, in case the universe had any other ideas.

“The universe will not be bothering us today,” Myka said with a sly smile.

Bonus points for reading my mind, Helena thought. “Oh?”

“Mhmm,” Myka replied as she led Helena to the kitchen table, where the plate of sticky toffee pudding sat arranged amidst confetti and balloons. “We, ah, had some words.”

Helena ah’ed in response as she watched—nonchalantly, she hoped—as Myka slowly dipped a spoon into the toffee pudding. “Well,” ahem, “it has been my experience that the universe does not take kindly to threats.” 

Myka brought the spoon to her mouth and sucked the toffee from it. She licked it clean—if she was trying to give Helena ideas, well, it’s working, Helena granted—before she added, “I told the universe to add it to my tab.”

Helena smiled furtively before closing in on Myka and meeting those exquisite, green eyes. Up close, Helena’s expression turned solemn.

Myka frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s just…” Helena began, and Myka heard the year and a half of loneliness and pain creep into the woman’s voice. “I thought I would have planned it out better than I did. I p-promise,” her voice broke, “I never stopped fighting for you.”

She was just slightly confused by Myka’s reaction, which was a sigh of relief and a broad smile.

“I know,” Myka replied. “I knew that, whatever you were doing, it was important, and if it brought you back safely, then, I could live with that. I will say, though,” the corners of Myka’s lips curled, “I figured you had something to do with the raven.”

Helena sputtered incoherently. “Wh-How do you know about that?”

Myka simply laughed in response. It really was the most beautiful sound in the world. Helena was pretty sure she loved her. Pretty bloody sure.

“Now wait just one moment, you mean, in Italy, and then Austria—”

“Yep,” Myka giggled as she spooned another bite of toffee into her mouth. “Knew it was you.”

Helena smirked at her a moment before realizing the con. She swiped the spoon from Myka playfully. “Oh, you! I just showed you my hand!”

Myka licked her lips. “It took longer than I thought it would, but then again, I’m used to doing it to Pete. Easy mark, that one.”

Helena barked out a laugh in agreement. “I’m a bit rusty, I’m afraid. It’s been some time since I was in the field.”

“Well, I daresay you’re due for some…training.” Myka quickly glanced up at the ceiling, which Helena took to mean, in the general direction of her bedroom. “We do make a pretty good team, don’t we, Agent Wells?”

“That we do, Agent Bering,” Helena replied as she found her gaze falling back to the ring on Myka’s finger. “I noticed you still wear it.”

Myka looked from Helena to her ring and shrugged. “I like what it stands for.”

Helena smiled. “As do I, darling. As do I.”

They were almost touching now. Helena leaned in…and reached over to take the plate of dessert from the center of the table. 

Myka groaned. “Helena?” Every syllable was positively guttural.

Helena heard it in her voice and simply couldn’t resist drawing it out. If Myka was correct—and she almost always was—the universe would not be getting in the way today. They had all the time in the world for now.

“Myka,” Helena growled. “I haven’t had sticky toffee pudding in over a hundred years.”

“Well.” Myka saw right through the perfectly…perfect woman before her. She was pretty sure she loved her. Pretty damned sure. “Bring it upstairs, but leave the spoons. I assure you, we won’t be needing any.”

And with that, Myka led Helena, who only too happily carried the plate of pudding, by the hand upstairs. Helena smiled, watching as brunette curls before her bounced with each step. 

She ran a thumb over Myka’s hand. Myka squeezed back. Helena smiled again. She was home at last.

Sometimes, all people need is a happy ending, she considered. 

I daresay this is only the beginning.


	10. Chapter 10

_Myka Bering was on the porch this particular evening, bare feet propped against the edge of a wicker ottoman, with a first edition Dickens unfolded against her pajama-clad thighs. She figured the warehouse could go one night without The Mystery of Edwin Drood. It was an unfinished work, after all, and the only considerable downside would be a temporary compulsive need to rearrange Pete’s room, which, had she not been under the artifact’s influence, was something she was tempted to do anyway, considering he had yet to arrange all of his stuff that had just been shipped in. It was a win-win, really._

 

_From Artie’s desk, Claudia had quirked an eyebrow in Myka’s direction as she’d tiptoed out of Artie’s room clutching the old manuscript in her purple-gloved hands. She was still new to Warehouse 13, bound by the same rules (guidelines, really) as Pete and Myka, but she knew Myka couldn’t resist first editions._

_“You know Dickens never finished it, right?” Claudia asked, pausing from typing to swivel around._

_Myka jumped, whipping her head about to find Claudia peeking over a monitor. She recovered quickly, but chastised herself for not paying attention to her surroundings. A few months into this job and already, Myka was a different agent. Better or worse, she hadn’t decided. “Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it. You won’t tell Artie, will you?”_

_“Of course not. If I tell Artie, he’ll deflect and ask why I haven’t flushed the gooery yet,” Claudia replied with a roll of her eyes. “And now I must ask…whodunit?”_

_Myka smiled. “If I were a betting woman, my money would be on the uncle, John Jasper.”_

_Claudia pretended to adjust an invisible monocle. “My dear, your deductive prowess continues to astound.”_

_“I guess we’ll never know.” Myka slipped the book into a static bag before placing it in her own handbag._

_“Downside?” Claudia asked conversationally as she returned to her data encryption._

_“Apparently, Dickens had obsessive-compulsive disorder,” Myka started, snapping off her purple gloves. “He composed this manuscript while in and out of several hotels, where, evidently, he rearranged every room he stayed in. Even left little notes telling the staff how to improve upon their tidiness. The manuscript was imbued with the energy from his repetitive behavior.”_

_Claudia considered this. “Well, if you want to do the week’s inventory after you read it, Artie just might give you a raise.”_

 

_Back on the porch that evening, Myka smiled and turned a page in the old manuscript. That familiar aroma of aged lignin wafted up from the folio, before being taken up and carried on by a cool evening breeze._

_“Hey,” someone said from somewhere behind her._

_Pete Lattimer pulled up a chair, one hand shoved in the pocket of his Marines hoodie and the other hand proffering—_

_“Oatmeal scotchie?” he asked, holding a plate of what could only be Leena’s freshly-baked cookies. The smell was, Myka admitted, nothing short of heavenly._

_“No, thanks,” she replied, quiet and polite. She cleared her throat and resumed reading. Of course, she had lost her place, and it would actually be a moment before she was certain she could safely recommence, anyway._

_“Right, right, sugar. I forgot,” Pete said and set the plate down on the ottoman, but not before taking two cookies for himself, making a to-do of getting comfortable in his own chair. Myka heard him take a bite from his cookie, which he proceeded to chew with gusto. “Whatcha readin’?”_

_There was a lot about Agent Lattimer that Agent Bering was most certainly not, and that suited her just fine. But they were here for this job, paired together no less, and Dickinson couldn’t do much about it, so Myka, for the first time in a long time, had to settle and accept it for what it was._

_She’d be lying, however, if she said she hadn’t been starting to enjoy herself. The job at the warehouse had already proved to be a fairly even division of give and take.  
Hence, the Dickens manuscript in her lap. Compulsiveness wasn’t such a stretch for her anyway, she thought, with a twinge of bitterness. Denver was still a fresh wound._

_Pete was halfway upside-down trying to decipher the title when he caught Myka looking at him, or rather, scrutinizing the trail of oatmeal scotchie tumbling down his hoodie._

_He put up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, shouldn’t have bothered you, I’ll just—” he trailed off as he stood, taking the plate of cookies with him._

_Myka sighed and closed the manuscript. “Dickens,” she said, as Pete was halfway to the porch door._

_“Ooh, like A Christmas Carol?” Pete asked, interest renewed._

_“Same author, different story,” Myka replied, finally permitting herself to crack a small smile. It had the intended effect; Pete sat back down, replacing the plate on the ottoman, but composed himself with a bit of effort._

_Myka turned slightly towards him. “It’s about a guy named Edwin Drood, who’s in love with a girl named Rosa Budd. But Edwin’s uncle John Jasper, the choirmaster at the boarding school Rosa attends, has an eye for Miss Budd—”_

_“Ugh, creepy old dude,” Pete interjected._

_“—But so does Neville Landless, who has a twin named Helena, who are both new to Rosa’s school. Edwin’s betrothed to Miss Budd, but Jasper and Neville try competing for her favor because whoever marries her marries into a sizeable inheritance.”_

_Pete gasped lightly. “Oh man, a love triangle. No, quad…quadrangle?”_

_Myka smiled and looked up at the night sky. She was surprised at how many stars there were. Nighttime in Washington D.C. had nothing on this._

_“Yeah, so you can imagine the infighting that goes on between them,” she continued. “John tries pitting Neville against Edwin and Edwin tries keeping John away from Rosa and it gets out of hand.” She caught Pete’s eye and found him staring, wide-eyed._

_“What happened?” he asked quietly._

_“Edwin goes missing. John Jasper starts a rumor that Neville killed him.”_

_Pete leaned forward. “And…did he?”_

_Myka leaned forward, too, and whispered, “Nobody knows.”_

_“Whaaaat?” Pete sat back, devastated. “Why not? I don’t get why nobody finishes their stories anymore.”_

_“Geeze, Pete, Dickens died before he could finish it,” Myka chided with a smile. “Give the man a little credit, okay? It’s not like he was posting chapters online and hoping for a windfall.”_

_She laughed lightly with a shake of her head and resumed reading, leaving Pete to draw his own conclusions. She traced a few lines with her finger, scanning until she found her place. Rosa Budd was confessing, rather fearfully, to her newfound friend Helena her suspicions regarding Edwin’s uncle John.  
_

_Helena, Myka read. It made her think of Helen of Troy, daughter of Zeus and Leda, the most beautiful woman in the Greek mythological world. Helena, she repeated in her head. Multiple etymologies. Possibly derived from ἑλένη, ‘torch,’ or the Vedic svaranā, ‘the shining one,’ depending on who you asked. Myka loved them all._

_She sighed and made to turn another page when she realized Pete was still in his seat, only now, he was gazing up at the stars. He’d surprised her, she admitted, during one of their first nights at the bed and breakfast, when he started naming constellations. He could be a bit on the immature side sometimes, but Myka had to hand it to him; Pete really was pretty smart._

_Myka looked up at the night sky with him, unable to help that sense of awe that brought goosebumps to her bare arms. She knew a few of the obvious constellations—Orion, Polaris, Ursa Major—but between the two of them, Pete was the real astronomer. She just couldn’t believe she’d never seen this many stars before. Then again, she couldn’t believe she was working a beyond-classified job in the Middle of Nowhere, South Dakota, either._

_“It's a funny place, innit? South Dakota,” Pete replied, as if Myka had just spoken aloud. “Just…big wide stretches of nothing but the ground under your feet and the wild blue yonder straight out to the horizon and nothing in between.” He gestured broadly with his arms. “And it's so...quiet.”_

_Myka smiled. He was right. “Almost like it operates on a different clock than the rest of the world.”_

_“Exactly. But you can’t even tell because there’s like, no noise, y’know? There’s no buildings or anything. The dinosaurs could’ve just died and nobody would know the difference,” Pete continued, his gaze flicking from one constellation to another. “When my dad and I camped during the summer, we could look up and if we weren’t looking precisely at the stars themselves, just off to the side a little, we could see a hazy, milky cluster running in this direction.”_

_Pete pointed, his finger running up and down their field of vision. “Know what it was?”_

_Pete glanced at her, his eyes still wide. He really could act twelve years old sometimes, but tonight, she almost envied him for it. She shook her head._

_“Myka, that’s the galactic core. It's right there, 27,000 light years away and nothing stands between it and you but some space and quiet. Like you could reach out and touch the stars themselves.”_

_She found herself shivering as glanced back up at the spot Pete had indicated, and squinted hard._

_Pete sighed. “I haven’t had this good a view in years.”_

_They each leaned back in their seats, cookies and Dickens abandoned. It was the most refreshed Myka had felt in a long, long time. She was surprised at herself, at how she didn’t really want to move, didn’t want drag herself upstairs to press her suit for tomorrow or set her alarm or even go to sleep.  
Maybe the warehouse could be her home. Maybe Pete could be her partner. Maybe South Dakota could make room for her after all. No, she thought. Maybe I can make room for them._

 

Myka, who had just returned from bringing the plate of sticky toffee pudding to the kitchen, leaned against the doorjamb of Helena’s room, reassured to see that the woman was, finally, fast asleep. The sun would be up soon, and Myka was, admittedly, in desperate need of sleep (the cause of which Myka would only publicly blame her excitement and privately chalk up to activities involving the now-sleeping woman before her, but she knew she wasn’t fooling anyone), but nothing seemed to refresh her more than this, the sight of the most gracefully formidable person in her world granted reprieve from the sheer weight and wonder and wildness of the untamed future of which she was now an active part.

Myka considered it all, as she ran a hand through her tangled curls: the job, her life, and the woman before her. It was different now, wasn’t it? Felt like all give and no take…but that wasn’t completely true. It had given her Helena, hadn’t it? But it had taken her away, too. 

Yet, there she was.

And that’s what mattered most.

In the time since she’d started at Warehouse 13, Myka had beheld some of the most awe-inspiring sights in the world, the sort which most people would never see in a lifetime. But that night sky was the last truly breathtaking thing she’d seen. Until now. 

Helena was finally home and Myka was in awe. 

She could finally breathe again.


	11. Chapter 11

Myka Bering was well-versed in the rules outlined by the Warehouse Agent Guidelines and Disclaimer Contract, particularly those regarding inter-agent fraternization. It was hard _not_ to be, considering there was only one: Don’t do it.

It was 4:18 a.m. Forty-two minutes before her alarm, precious time that she knew should be spending asleep, but couldn’t, because it had been, well, far longer than she cared to remember since she last was awoken by the feeling of that precisely human warmth beside her.

As she folded an arm beneath a mess of dark curls, she gazed upwards, silently reasoning with the bedroom ceiling that she had considered petitioning an amendment to the fraternization rule: If you’re gonna do it anyway, then at least _try_ to make sure an artifact or anything else doesn’t kill you. Because—and even Myka was willing to concede this point—even on a good day, that was a lot of paperwork that nobody wanted to do. Not to mention, she had come close enough to that in recent years that she would do anything to stay alive. The stakes heightened every year.

Of course, Myka understood why the rule existed, had accepted its existence without protest or a second thought when it came time for her signature statement. At the time, she was still raw from Denver anyway, and even then, it hadn't taken her long to deduce that if agents had long ago decided to start hooking up left and right, if it meant acting on that _love at first sight_ cliché, she was fairly certain that the warehouse would still be half-empty and the earth would be a smoldering ex-blueberry demoted to less-than-Pluto status, all because somebody left their purple gloves in someone else’s pants one night. Myka could respect that rule, leave it well enough alone, because it was in the manual and if it was in the manual, then, to no one’s surprise, it was probably there to prevent an agent from throwing caution to the wind and was to her, by extension, nothing short of word of god itself. She used to marvel, often while away on missions back when she’d first joined Warehouse 13, that an agent would even consider throwing away a chance at saving, well, the _world_ , if it meant having a shot at that fickle, many-splendored beast. It made her eyes roll, and on more than one occasion, put a kink in her oft-outstretched neck.

She’d had Pete to thank for pointing that one out. She repaid him, when he unwittingly dived to save Picasso’s paintbrush as it rolled off a shelf she may or may not have bumped into, by not laughing as he suffered a trip to the gooery with approximately half a face and more ears than was strictly necessary.

However, Myka wanted to petition the amendment because, well, it was a fine thing to save the world, but coming home to a hidden stash of cookies had, admittedly, stopped doing the trick for her some time ago. Warehouse agents were a rare breed, true, but they were still human, as were their needs. Sometimes, there was no better way to say, “Congratulations on not dying from this object that melts your face off” than by allowing the agents to work off those endless cascades of adrenaline in a spectacularly physical fashion. Better than finding out they silently internalized it and risked making short work of completely losing their heads—literally or figuratively—which would bring them back to needless and excessive amounts of paperwork.

Myka didn’t mind paperwork usually, but she _definitely_ hated the emptiness that almost swallowed her whole after losing a partner, and that was something she vowed would never be repeated, if she had any say in it.

Plus, she secretly believed, losing a partner was bound to _really_ piss Mrs. Frederic off.

So Myka figured an amendment was only logical.

Because _damn_. If it wasn’t love at first sight with Helena G. Wells, then what the hell _was_ it?

 


	12. Chapter 12

Helena used to count the number of times Myka looked at her. Hers was something far beyond the primal glares of men and hasty glances of women from her day. Helena counted because it steadied her while she pieced together everything she loved about the younger woman with mesmerizing eyes and an intellectual prowess that made her heart leap, which assured her when doubts—sometimes spurred by darkness, which brought her back to the insides of her eyelids from inside the bronze, or by tricks of the light that recalled time spent whisking between reality and the semi-reality of the Regents’ prison—crept into her brilliant mind, that she was extraordinarily lucky.

 _How are you real?_ she wanted to whisper to her, in the dark. _You exist the way a character from a book exists—flawed while maintaining the image of perfection, possessing extraordinary abilities but failing to see how much you need even a little love, while being miraculously congruent to the odd angle that is my life._

_Were you made for me? No, that’d be silly. We are made to be ourselves for ourselves._

_Then how is it we overlap like this, correspond to, correlate with…exist for? How did my sense of self expand to accommodate a whole other being? When did I fit you in?_

_I cannot see where I end and you begin._

_This isn’t real_ , she thought. _This cannot possibly be happening._

 

 

Myka pressed her lips against Helena’s that evening, as she straddled the woman and let her curls tickle Helena’s face as she leaned in. She stopped from time to time to gaze at Helena with an expression somewhere between admiration and disbelief, and Helena looked through her with eyes that saw more, understood and sympathized with more than most. Myka did not doubt she was the luckiest person in the world as she rolled the whole of herself, and then some, against Helena.

As a tall woman, Myka was always a tad mindful when meeting women shorter than her for the first time, because they often cast such… _baleful_ glances her way, which certainly spoke more to their lack of self-assurance than hers. (Myka had earned her confidence much in the way that steel was forged; under nigh-unbearable heat and pressure, until it molded her and the resultant form proved startlingly advantageous. It wasn’t so long ago that Myka had found herself wondering if the same might be true of the woman beneath her now.) If the way Helena expertly flipped Myka onto her back in one swift move was any indication, she thought with a tiny smirk, maybe she wasn’t wrong to wonder.

At any rate, the height thing was a superficial observation, really, but Myka couldn’t fail to notice it. After all, she’d long been drilled to _keep an eye on the eyes, Bering!_ by the burly, bald instructor she had during service training a lifetime ago. But with Helena…no, the woman had simply notched her chin higher, argued, with a toss of her hair—which wasn’t all black, Myka remembered observing one afternoon when undertones of brunette glinted against the sunlight’s glare—that during _her_ time, she was by no means considered a short woman, and gladly swallowed Myka whole.

Myka just couldn’t believe anyone would love her; at least, not _all_ of her.

Because she was Myka Bering: a meticulous polyglot who kept her private life private, who likely knew more about your personal history than you did, and had it and any scribbles in the margins committed to memory to boot, and was, undoubtedly, the smartest person in the room. And if there was any doubt, she took zero issue with knocking skeptics on their asses, because she respected sound evidence. _Ah, confidence_.

She doubted Helena the first time she’d heard her say the words. Of course, times like now, where hunger and longing and love filled those dark eyes, Myka had no doubt in her mind. The purpling bruises on her neck, the tingling in her curled toes, the fistfuls of hair, the hips that rolled instinctively to hers, her name on this woman’s lips, were all the evidence she needed.

The last of the sticky toffee pudding was on the tip of Myka’s finger and she dipped it into Helena’s mouth. Myka watched as unspoken yearning lit in Helena’s eyes before closing them to suck the last of the sugar from her finger. 

She savored it long after the pudding was gone.

 

 

 

At 4:47 a.m., as if on cue, a few mornings later, Myka heard the mumbling. With a half-turn of her head, her eyes followed the silhouetted contour of Helena’s sleeping form beside her. Every morning, Myka felt the lurch of compassion that resided so closely beside the place in her heart for this woman that they were nearly one and the same anymore. She wanted to reach out to her, to place a soothing hand on the woman’s shoulder, and tell her to take deep breaths. She wanted to hold her close and let her steady heartbeat lull Helena back to sleep. But every morning, Myka refrained from doing so, and when Helena would awaken, Myka pretended to sleep for a few minutes, if it meant giving Helena a chance to reassert her place between nightmare and reality; compassion from a distance.

Myka might be confident, but she was willing to concede that even confidence often failed to account for simple human fragility, or at least the kind that the woman beside her harbored beneath a refined shell of smoke, mirrors, formidability, and above all, a tactician’s mind that would suspect the slightest hint of compassion—which was too easily confused with pity, but Myka wanted to believe Helena knew better—from miles away and deflect. Or worse, Myka considered miserably, she’d opt for a clean break, and that would be _the_ end, the one Myka had vowed to avoid at any cost.

As a bluish-yellow morning broke on the horizon, Myka recalled something someone once said to her; that her compassion would get her killed someday. She had point-blank refused to believe it then, and in the time since had grown uncertain as to whether she should now.

_Damned if you do, damned if you don’t._

“Please…no…”

Helena was pleading again. It snapped Myka’s heart in half.

So Myka did nothing but watch her. The woman shook with a heavy sigh and pled no more.

With a frown, Myka rolled back over, the sheet beneath her cool again, as the old knot of uncertainty clenched in the pit of her stomach.

 

 

“Today’s the big day.”

A sultry voice, octaves lower than the frantic mumblings in the half-light of earlier that morning, accompanied a warm breath against the soft skin overlying her tricep. Myka bit her lip as she rolled onto her back.

The incoming sunlight, lower on the wide South Dakota horizon as September slipped them by, cast a halo around the silhouette that was Helena.

“You nervous?” Myka breathed. She refrained from mentioning the nightmares.

“Nervous? Me? Darling, remember who you’re talking to,” Helena said with a throaty chuckle as she sat back against the headboard. Inky tresses overlaid porcelain skin.

“Not a day goes by that I don’t.” She brought a finger to Helena’s bare stomach, traced a faint vertical line there. She circled an exposed hip bone and she pressed her lips to it. “Were you really…” Myka started, lips still pressed against Helena’s skin.

Helena ran a hand through Myka’s wild curls. “What?”

Myka sighed, her breath warm. “Fighting.” She chose her words carefully. “For…for your future?”

Helena considered this, a little surprised. Then again, Myka had probably been awake for at least an hour and pondered everything twice by now. She refrained from mentioning her nightmares. “Once, yes.”

“But now?”

“Now,” Helena answered, finally smiling. “I fight for yours.”

Myka bit her lip and opted, eventually, for a grin. She wrapped herself in a blanket and climbed out of bed. As she tottered her way to the bathroom, she passed by a chair in the corner, upon which lay Helena’s open suitcase, which contained everything she’d managed to carry back from her home across the pond during her enforced exile—leatherbounds, trinkets, a yellowing (and tattered, Myka was pleased to notice) Warehouse manual, and an impressive array of vests among them—and her passing but ever-vigilant gaze fell to the passport tucked into the zippered interior mesh pocket. An urge to steal it and burn it momentarily overwhelmed her. She filed away that notion for later.

“So what did you do, while you were away?” Myka asked, her voice soft as she turned away from the luggage.

Helena lay naked and warm in the sunlight and she yawned. “Ooh,” she paused, thinking. “A little of this, a little of that.”

“I hear you got some use out of the Emily Lake name.”

“That I did.”

 “…Anything good?”

“Myka,” Helena said, finally meeting her gaze. “Emily Lake isn’t real. Never was. Lacked...substance, if you will. As did almost everything I accomplished as her. This,” she said, spreading her arms to encompass the room and Myka, “ _this_ is my truth. It would be a transgression to think—or do—otherwise.”

Myka rested a hand on the polished bathroom door handle. “Surely you had _some_ fun.” 

Helena shrugged. Myka decided not to push the subject, for now. Trust was a funny thing.

“Perhaps you’ll tell me about your adventures someday?”

Helena smiled, polite and a touch diffident, and something, a ghost of an old, involuntary expression, flickered over her perfect features.

“Someday, darling. Someday.”

With a clench of the knot in her gut, Myka remained motionless as she recognized who it was. 

Helena noticed Myka, and gave her an appraising look while clearing her throat, which was just enough to startle Myka into realizing her blanket was slipping. Myka _ahem_ ’ed and excused herself. 

Their small smiles to one other were the last thing they each saw before the bathroom door closed.

 


End file.
